


Don't you forget about me

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically it's like full circle baby, Blink and you'll miss it mention of a threesome, Couple of mildly sexy dreams, Established Dean Winchester/Reader, Established Relationship, F/M, Feel it all, Fluff, Happy Ending, How many tags must a writer tag, Hubble bubble toil and trouble mofo, Humor, I don't care for Simple Minds but this is their one good song and it's a good title so, I really love typing a tag and reading the recs, IT WAS GOING TO BE A FUCKING DRABBLE, Memory Loss, Sam legit is crafty, Sam ships it and he's not fucking sorry, Seriously I hope you enjoy this., The answer is blowing in the wind, The answer my friend is blowing in the wind, This turned into something and became like 10k plus and I'm not sure when that happened, We gots its all, Witches, before y'all will read my story, roll up roll up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 05:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15406479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: It’s a regular ol’ witch hunt when you find a hex bag stuffed down some poor suckers throat, that is, if you could remember what a hex bag was.Aka: what if the witch hit both you and Dean with bad memory mojo?(Set during S12 E11 - Regarding Dean)





	Don't you forget about me

The leaves scrape against your boots as you run with no consideration for your surroundings. Crushed plants underfoot, tree roots that you barely notice in time to jump over, there’s only one thing on your mind, the same as it’s on Dean’s mind. Getting the witch. 

You hear Dean fire a shot so he must be closer, or closer than you at least, you change directions heading towards the sound. You think you’re catching up when you hear it, a rustling. Changing direction again you find yourself coming up behind Dean, his gun raised and his shoulders tense. You know he’s seconds away from shooting, so you whisper, “hey handsome.” It won’t make him any less inclined to shoot but it will mean he doesn’t spin around and aim at you instead.

It works, as always. There’s a nod, that indiscernible nod that only you see as he keeps his gun trained on the witch. You join him, your own weapon now poised, finger edged on the trigger

“You people. You never learn, do you?” Dean’s voice has that low and gruff tone he reserves for lamenting at monsters. “Always trying to run.”

Surprisingly the witch turns around at this. First, you think it’s an act of bravery, look death in the eye and all that, then you see the almost hypnotic purple light. It looks like it’s actually pulsating from the tree, an intricate carving in the wood. It makes both of you lower your guns, not completely but, for a split second, neither of you are toeing that line of almost shooting.

The light becomes something else, stronger, resonating. It starts to fill the clearing, wiping away all trace of the night, until it’s occupying your entire vision.

The last thing you hear, before you’re thrown backward and land unconscious is, “Dearmad!”

* * *

 

“Y/N, baby, wake up.” This might be a normal wakeup call if your body wasn’t immediately aware of some things that were very unlike every other morning.

There’s the uneven ground you’re lying on, the smell of tree sap, the feeling of chill morning air that signifies the outside. Then you open your eyes and look up at Dean with mud painted up one side of his face and neck, plus a few leaves poking out of his hair.

“Dean? What happened?” You’re trying to remember but it’s unmanageably fuzzy inside your head, and when he hears your question you can tell he doesn’t remember either.

He’s helping you up now though, one strong hand on your back and one holding your hand as you leverage yourself up from the floor, “I was hoping you’d remember.” His smile is sweet and innocent, and you only wonder how much you’d both drunk.

You laugh softly once you’re standing, “why have I always got to be the responsible one?” 

He ignores your question when he hears your stomach growl. He glances down at your stomach and back to your face, “lucky for you I know where we’re getting breakfast.”

“Breakfast?” Your eyes light up and a smile tugs at your lips.

“Waffles baby, I’m taking you to get waffles.” His wraps his hand around yours, fingers intertwined as he tugs you along. Somehow, you’re not expecting him to pull you out into a park full of morning joggers, it seems too normal a scene to be set against a mysterious wooded area that you just woke up in. 

You reach into your pocket with the hand that isn’t being used to lead you, “should we call Sam?”

Except what you pull out is a broken shell of what used to be your phone. You’re frowning at it when Dean turns back to you.

“Nah I already called him and… huh. Your phone too?” He seems curious and not concerned at all, which is a little frustrating since you’d liked that phone 

“You mean yours is broken too?”

He shrugs, continuing towards the waffle house you can now see in the distance. “Yeah, I borrowed some jogging idiots phone and told Sam to meet us for waffles.”

Your voice is all disbelief as you ask, more to yourself than him, “what the hell happened last night?”

* * *

 

“Oh. Hey, did you bring any, um…?” Dean asks while you look up from your stack of fluffy, heavenly waffles to see Sam sauntering in all self-satisfied and smug.

Sam shakes the pill bottle as he sits down and that’s something that catches your attention. “Sounded like you could use it.”

You make grabby hands, which Dean interprets by giving you the first two pills he pours out, before shaking out some for himself.

Sam seems even more amused now as you pop them in your mouth, “you too Y/N?”

“Rough morning. And not the sexy kind of rough.” You answer with no appreciation for how amusing Sam is finding this.

“What happened? I mean you guys went out to get some food?”

Dean is attacking his waffles again, “I don’t know.”

“What does that mean?” You can see Sam is trying to understand. Unfortunately, he’d need to drink a  _lot_  to truly understand. 

“I guess we blacked out. And judging from this hangover, it was epic.” Dean sports a waffle-y grin.

You grimace at the pounding in your head and Dean’s mention of alcohol, which you were never consuming again, probably, “can you two be any quieter please?”

Sam lowers his voice as he continues, “Well, I tried calling you. Both of you.”

Dean flashes Sam his broken phone, “not sure how that happened”.

You’re leaning over Dean to get to the fresh stack of waffles that was delivered as Sam arrived when you flick your fork in his direction “mine’s smashed too.”

Sam does it. You’d been expecting it since he arrived and so far, you’d been disappointed. He’d been far too jovial up until this point. Finally, he sighs and purses those lips of his into a classic, disapproving Sam scowl, “great. All right, well, I’ll text mom and make sure she knows to get hold of me in case of an emergency. And Cass, in case he tracks down Kelly.”

There’s a large piece of whipped cream covered waffle in your mouth when Dean knits his brow in confusion. Despite the food, you still try and speak although it comes out garbled, “wh-ooo?”

“The mother of Lucifer’s love child?” Sam asks incredulously.

Dean nods like he knew that all along, “right, right. Yes, the Devil baby mama drama. Say that five times fast.”

You chuckle as he tries to, and he looks at you with an appreciative smile for acknowledging his comedy brilliance. 

“Ok, Dean. You’ve had a good run, but let’s maybe pump the brakes a little bit. I mean you’re not twenty anymore. And Y/N, I thought you were better than this? You’ve only got a few years on him.” Sam hikes a thumb in Dean’s direction as he finishes scolding you.

“Okay, one, the rat pack partied till the day they died. And B, I can still kick your ass.” 

You playfully nudge Dean, “you sure can,” before you frown at Sam.

Sober Sam seems like he’s getting to the end of his rope now, “ok well the morgue opens in, like, ten minutes.” 

“The morgue?” 

“Yeah, the autopsy results. Are you still drunk?”

“I don’t think so.” Dean considers carefully. 

You at least make an attempt to play along, even if it’s a struggle to do so, “Right the results for the um—the case, right?”

Exasperated Sam recaps. “The dead guy. Throat stuffed full of money. Any of this ring a bell?”

Dean manages to remember more than you as he pulls the victim’s name out from some recess of his mind and you find yourself impressed. You wouldn’t have remembered that name for a million dollars.

As he continues with a run-down of the case you become a little worried. It’s only as he describes the crime scene that the images pop back into your head. As if they hadn’t been there until he told you about them.

“I’m gonna go scope out the body, have fun with your waffles.” Although you hear Sam’s voice it’s Dean slamming down his cutlery that pulls you back to the present. Yes, you should go scope out the body because maybe that’s why you couldn’t remember. Maybe you didn’t go to the crime scene yesterday, maybe you just needed to get more involved.

As you get up to leave with them a girl appears from nowhere standing in front of Dean, although her face goes between you both as she says, “hi.” 

You smile back at her despite both not knowing who she is and the unexplained jealousy bubbling away under the surface. Dean grins boyishly as he asks, “who are you?”

Or maybe that jealousy is called for after all, as her reaction to his question is a very angry slap. 

Your mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ of surprise as Dean recovers. She stops briefly as she’s walking away, “as I said, you can do better.” 

Dean looks at you hoping you have some insight since she spoke to you, but you shake your head with wide eyes. He takes your hand again like you might decide the random diner girl was right and pulls you closer before all three of you leave.

“Yep, epic night.”

* * *

 

“I gotta get out of here.” You manage, somehow, fighting against the upchuck reflexes before you push your way out of the room.

Luckily you don’t meet any employees on the way out of the building who might question the professionalism of an FBI agent who can’t handle a dead body. Let alone when the boys will come out, once they’ve finished, and question a hunter who can’t handle insides.

Of course, you normally can handle insides. And the blood-soaked money that has been inside someone else, it’s just this hangover. The swirling mess inside your head feels like you’re trying to mix oil and water. And now the sight of all that blood has been added to the concoction. That must be what’s making you feel sick. 

You find a bench outside that you fall onto, greedily taking up as much space as possible. Your legs are parted as much as your skirt will allow, elbows resting on your knees and your head bowed. Your eyes are purposefully unfocused in the direction of the floor as you try to calm your threatening gag reflex.

It’s fine though. It’s fine. You were going to be fine. It wasn’t the first dead body you’d seen, and it certainly wouldn’t be your last. You were a big girl and you could handle this. Just take some deep breaths and remember the time that Dean ate so many hot dogs that he almost threw up. That always makes you smile. And it does, at first. Until the hot dogs turn on you as well. 

You sit up suddenly, ignoring the head rush when you hear a man calling you. 

“Y/N?”

He’s tall, long hair tucked behind his ears and he looks at you like he knows you so you take your best shot, “Dean?”

His face twists, eyes squinting in confusion, “no, it’s Sam. Wow, how much did you guys drink last night?”

Of course, it’s Sam. Obviously. It’s Sam who loves lore and running, for God knows what reason. It’s Sam. 

“Sorry, Sam. The-the light was in my eyes,” you lie miserably as you stand up. He seems to accept your excuse even if it was badly delivered.

“Why aren’t you in the car?” He questions as he walks you back to the… the Impala. Clearly. 

“Just needed a bit of air. Sorry about what happened in there, with the…” he seems to take your inability to recollect the word as you just not wanting to mention the… not alive guy? The stiff? The deceased? None of them is the word you’re looking for.

“It’s ok. Turns out our dead guy was offed by a witch. Forced to swallow a hex bag.”

“Dead!” you exclaim happily as you reach for the back door of the car. He smiles stiffly as you slide in to see Dean, the right one this time, sifting through his keys.

Any concern he had for you is now transferred to his brother.

“Wow. Man, you were serious about epic. It’s the square one.”

Dean seems agitated by this, as if he knew it all along, “yeah. I know.” Except when he starts the engine and looks behind him the car lurches forward, hitting the newspaper racks that you had been sitting within a few feet of minutes ago. 

“R for ‘reverse’, Dean.” Sam snaps at the guy in front of you.

You should probably be concerned that you had been sitting near there. Or that you couldn’t remember the word ‘dead’ a few minutes ago but it’s difficult to focus. The oil and water feeling is back except intensified. It’s not painful just messy. Things are cloudy, foggy, and nothing is where you left it inside your own mind. But maybe, maybe that was just the shock of the sudden but small crash?

“Listen, guys, I know we haven’t had it easy lately. This thing with the Devil’s kid and getting tossed into West Guantanamo makes me wanna crawl into a bottle too, sometimes,” he was talking but nothing he was saying was making any sense. “but dude, you’re wrecked.” He turns his head briefly to you, “And you’re not much better. We’ve got a case to work so you both got to get it together, all right?” 

There’s a beat. You’re not sure why they are being so quiet up in the front seat but you’re silently trying to shake the dizziness of the car while it’s not even in motion.

“Dean? Dean?”

The guy in the driver’s seat asks the question you’d like to know the answer to as well, “who’s Dean?”

* * *

 

The room is already covered in little yellow sticky things, Sam had told you what they were called but you’d forgotten that too so next to the stack was a note that said ‘post its’.

You’d thought Dean calling the lamp a light stick was funny until you’d called the toilet a pee bowl. Since then he asked you whenever you got up if that’s where you were going, to the pee bowl. However, right now you were holding the tiny vodkas he had found while Sam talked to someone on the phone.

“Hey, who’s Rowena?” You ask Dean in a whisper, slightly tired of Sam’s face whenever you forgot something.

Dean, apparently remembering more than you, for now, gives you a brief synopsis, “she’s a witch. Pretty sure you’ve met her before. You might have tried to kill her.”

It was frightening that he knew that much more than you. Actually, it was more frightening that you didn’t know how much you’d forgotten. You’d feel perfectly normal, having a regular conversation and forget a word suddenly, and other times like this you’d forget an entire person that Dean was ‘pretty sure’ you’d met. Oh and possibly might have tried to kill.  

“I’m gonna go get some ice, be right back.” He smiled at you since Sam wasn’t listening to him.

You find yourself laughing as he walks away since he’s stuck a yellow sticky- a post-it- on his back that says ‘Dean’. You can tell he wrote it himself since the handwriting is different from all the ones that scatter the room. As he leaves though, the door slightly ajar, the idea that he felt he had to label himself fills you with a creeping sadness. 

“All right so…Dean?” Sam starts as he clicks to end his call. 

You look up from the bed you’re sitting on, tiny vodka bottles nestled in your lap and waiting for ice, “he went to get ice.”

“He went to get…? Y/N he could have… Dean!” Sam trails off as he runs out the door and you sigh. It’s all big and sad as you lean back against the headboard left waiting for one man to find the other. 

While you’re waiting you decide to start playing your new favorite game. It’s called ‘my name is’ and you invented it thank you very much. 

My name is Y/N and I am a hunter.

My name is Y/N and I have been a hunter for five years.

No, wait six. Six years.

My name is Y/N and when I was a kid I had a dog called Rolo. I named him that because my mom- no my dad used to buy me Rolo's as a treat.

My name is Y/N and my dad died six years ago.

My name is Y/N…

You can feel your breath hitch in your throat, this is an easy one. Your last name. You just had to remember your last name.

Your fingers twitch. You know enough to know there’s a collection of ID’s in your pocket, one of which will be real. You could just slip it out and check and you wouldn’t have to go through this ache of trying to remember.

But you want to remember, you  _need_  to remember. It’s your last name. You’ve had it as long as you’ve had Y/N. It’s always been yours and just because it isn’t right now doesn’t mean it’s gone. You just needed to remember. 

When the door opens, and they come bustling in, Dean dropping the ice by the door and Sam talking about yesterday, you’re holding your ID in your hand. Defeated and weak and staring at your name. Y/L/N. As much as you’d tried to convince yourself that you hadn’t lost it the name feels distant. Like all your ties with are slowly being snapped, or never were there in the first place. 

“Y/N?” Dean asks. Your Dean with his name on his back to make you laugh.

He’s at your side when you look up at him and he sees the anguish on your face.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” You don’t know if he’s genuinely forgotten that you’re both forgetting things, but it doesn’t matter because he calls you by a nickname he frequently uses, that you actually remember him using, and it’s good. It’s warm in your chest and hearing it from Dean you feel more connected to it than your own last name.

You reach out and run your thumb over his cheek, feeling the wash of scruff against your palm, “say that again, please.” 

He frowns but complies, “baby, what’s wrong?”

You take a deep gulp of air and let it envelop you. Dean makes you feel safe. Dean makes you feel like you haven’t forgotten anything important because you haven’t forgotten him. 

That in itself is enough to perk you up. It’s enough that you crack your face with a forced smile and swallow the sadness. “Nothing, it’s fine really. Sam found you then?”

Sam speaks up now, “yeah Rowena says we need to kill the witch, so we need to retrace your steps.” 

You could easily sink again at his words. The fact that Sam’s plan rests on retracing the steps of two people who can’t remember what an ice bucket is called without having a yellow sticky note on it. But you don’t because Dean unwittingly saves you from admitting that you don’t remember a single thing from yesterday.

“Ok so the last thing I sorta remember…”

* * *

 

The whole time you’d been standing in that office you hadn’t felt a damn thing. You hadn’t had Deja vu, no flash of a memory, nothing. The only thing you’d managed to say when you first got there was, “and I was here with you yesterday?” Because you couldn’t believe that you’d been there before. 

You hadn’t needed to try and remember Sam’s concerned face because he was wearing it while he looked at you and nodded. Eyes all full of the same sadness that filled you up whenever you knew that you were forgetting.

But you’d been there ten minutes and besides Dean stealing a cigar, which makes you roll your eyes, neither of you had remembered anything important.

And then Sam had started dragging you around burger joints and each time he’d ask you with the same hopefully expectant tone if either of you remember anything. It was getting difficult to keep disappointing him and worse disappointing yourself. Every time you didn’t have an answer for him you ended up with a hundred new questions.

“Wait. It’s – it’s her from, uh, from the waffles.” Dean says as you’re about to leave the third place. 

You look up and see it was indeed the girl who slapped Dean that morning and you all rush over to speak to her.

“If you’re gonna apologize you’d better make it quick”, she tosses at Dean with a fresh batch of side eye.

“Me, apologize? You smacked me.” You try not to laugh but that morning was one of the few things you could remember so yes, you were going to bask in the visual image of Dean being slapped. Even if you loved him.

When you look up you realize they’re chasing the poor girl, so you run to catch up with them as she says that Dean told her his name was Springsteen. Your stomach drops and suddenly you’re not sure if you want to know what happened here. Besides the whole FBI thing the only other time Dean used his fake names was when he was trying to pick up a girl. You’d spent enough time in bars with him, before you were together, to know his game. 

“This is actually serious, we think my partners here might actually have been roofied. If you can tell us anything that happened that would be a big help.” Sam rambles. 

Although she doesn’t seem to believe the story she complies anyway. “Sure. They ordered burgers to go. It was gonna be a minute. We were slammed. Then you both decided that you were going to start drinking tequila and you threw back what four or five shots? He put some ‘sick jams’ on the juke.” She makes air quotes and you snort but she wasn’t done, and she was coming for you next. 

“Then you both hit the bull.” She says matter of factly.

“They what?”  
“I what?”  
“Both of us?”

Every variation of the question was the same but different, and all uttered in unison.

“Oh yeah, he had the hots for Larry as soon as you walked in here but you,” she turns to look directly at you, ignoring the absolute horror on your face, “decided that if he could do it then you could do better. You screamed that you 'like being on top’ anyway.”

Dean is the one that feels the need to ask, “was I any good?”

“You were amazing, but she was better.” Your cheeks were still burning from the being on top thing but now they’re on fire in the dim light of the bar. “Anyway, we got to talking while she was kicking ass, and I thought we were just going to blow off some steam.” She pauses and throws you a look of apology, "I didn't know you guys were together at that point, but then he started trying to talk me into… you know?”

She looks back to Dean like staring at him will be enough to jog his memory, but his still clueless face seems to make her realize that it’s all true. He really didn’t know what she was talking about, neither of you did.

“Wow, you guys really don’t remember. Ok well, he was trying to talk me into um, well, joining you guys.”

Sam’s face pales of color as you spin on your heel, “WHAT!?”

The waitress looks like she made a mistake, “I mean, that’s why I told you last night that you deserved better after you got all hot and heavy at the bar and I knew he was serious.”

Dean, after looking everywhere but, finally settles on looking at you directly, “what? We’d talked about it!”

You drag a hand down your face in frustration, growling through your teeth, “yes but you don’t- you don’t just go and pick up someone in a bar without talking to me first.”

“You don’t know that I didn’t talk to you first!” Dean says like he’s won the argument. He should know by now that he hasn’t.

Sam finally cuts in, “I’m sorry, did you see either of them talk to anyone else?” 

The waitress decides the safest course of action is talking directly to Sam from now on, “yeah. My bartender said she saw him run out like his pants were on fire and she followed after him.”

“Great, does this place have security cameras?”

* * *

 

The witch was dead. You knew this because there was a sticky note that said as much stuck to the wall of the motel.  ** _Witch is already dead_**. Someone else had added a frowny face underneath in a different pen. Even while holding the pen in question you had forgotten that it was you.

You referred back to the notes you’d been writing on the monogrammed motel notepad you found.  ** _Sam is the tall one_**. He had been patiently reminding you about things that you’d forgotten all day but more and more you were finding that you didn’t realize that you’d forgotten. Making your own notes seemed to help.

“Hey! No, D-Dean, wait a second,” you hear Sam, the tall one, say as Dean, the hot one, responds to a knock at the door.

It’s when Sam stands up that you call out from the bed, “oh my god why do you have a gun?”

He turns his head to you, gun still raised, with an annoyed glare. Apparently, his patience was wearing thin.

A harmless enough looking woman saunters in like she owns the joint. You look down at the notepad to remind yourself that in fact ‘Super 8’ own the place although that leads to more questions than it answers. Are all 8 of them really that super?

“Who are you?” Dean asks, saving you the trouble.

“Spells progressed, I see.” She looks at Sam. 

If Sam wasn’t annoyed when he started at you then he definitely is now, “I wanted intel Rowena, not a house call.”

“Oh, I have a feeling you’ll come to thank me.”

You jot down  ** _Rowena has amazing red hair_**  because she immediately seems like the sort of person who will refuse to wear a sticky note. 

Dean notices the hair too because he tells her it’s so bouncy and you consider crossing out your previous comment immediately. But your need to remember names trumps the hot feeling in your chest when Dean compliments her.

It doesn’t stop you calling out though, “do you need to keep touching him? I mean I got blasted too, or so I’m told.”

She turns to you with a warm smile, “don’t worry lass. I know, I know, he’s all yours.”

“What do you mean he’s all mine?” You cross out  ** _the hot one_**  on your notepad and replace it with  ** _the shorter one_** , in case just writing it down is how she somehow found out about your crush.

Tall one intervenes now, “Y/N? Who do you think this is?” He asks with a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

You really try, honestly, you do. You hadn’t told them that you didn’t really remember their names because you didn’t want them to be sad but now you’re on the spot and you can’t stop your eyes from flickering to the pad that’s resting on your knees, “D-Dean. That’s Dean. He’s um-.” Don’t say it, you will yourself trying not to look at the words with a line through them, “he’s the hot one.”

Dean grins and winks at you and honestly? He could take you right there. Although you look away as red flushes your cheeks. However tall guy seems extremely concerned about the whole situation. He walks calmly to you while you’re still eye flirting with Dean and grabs the pad that was in front of you.

“The tall one? Sam is the tall one?” He questions like your description of him might be offensive. You’re not sure how unless he is somehow unaware of how freaking tall he is. He does soften when sits beside you though, handing you back the notepad and cautiously putting a hand on yours, “how long have you not known who we are?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. You just seem really upset about something, so I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

He looks up at hot guy, “Dean, do you know who this is?”

For some reason, your chest constricts while you wait for an answer, although you only feel defective when he looks at you and says, “that’s Y/N.”

Sam presses him, “yeah, that’s good Dean but who is she to you?”

He looks at the ground guiltily as he answers, “I don’t know.”

It’s as Sam sits him at the end of the bed you’re on, with the TV for a distraction that you lean over to whisper to him, “it’s ok if you don’t remember me. I mean I don’t know if it’s ok, but I don’t remember you either so maybe we don’t know each other that well.” 

He looks at you and smiles, “Maybe you’re right. Pretty sure I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

You playfully slap his arm before settling next to him to watch the cartoon, “shut up you flirt.”

“Whatever you say,  sweetheart.” You ignore the way your still tight chest loosens when he calls you that.

“… would take time, more than they’ve got. Especially Y/N, she’s farther gone than he is.” You don’t know why your ears perk up then, but they do. “They’ve already begun to forget themselves, and anyone they’ve ever known and loved. Even each other. Even you. Soon they’ll forget how to speak, how to swallow and then they’ll both die.”

You look down at your pad again to remind yourself it’s Dean who speaks, “sucks for those two.”

* * *

 

Tall guy had taken you and hot guy into the bathroom. He’d said neither of you had time for him to talk to you separately, but you had no idea why you didn’t have the time if he was the one telling the story.

Then again, you’d thought that before you heard the story.

He’d told you that you were both under a spell. He’d told you what you both did for a living and he’d made a joke about the fact that you don’t actually get paid so maybe it wasn't a living. You saved people. You killed monsters.  ** _Monsters are real_** , made it onto your notepad. So many random little notes were added that you’d need to rewrite them later just, so you could read them.

If you had a later. Sam, he’d told you to call him Sam, had said that eventually, this spell would make you forget everything including how to live. He’d told Dean his story and then said sorry to you saying that he could only fill in some of the blanks. He’d told you that the only person who knew your history as well as you was Dean. 

Then he’d told you about your life since you’d met them. This was a group story starring all three of you. Memorable hunts.  ** _Hunts are where you find a monster to kill_.**  Times together in the bunker.  ** _The bunker is where you live_.**  He told you how you how you and Dean got together and how even when you argue you’re both happy. 

It’s when he’s talking about your relationship that you’d found yourself unable to breathe. 

You don’t know if it had been those green eyes staring at you while Sam speaks. Or if it’s Sam telling you this romantic love affair that you don’t remember. Maybe it’s just that you don’t have a lot of time left and you need to see the stars. Whatever the reason you stand up from the tiled floor you had been curled up on and tell them both that you need some air.

Sam calls after you but, as does the red-haired lady does when you walk through the other room, but you’re already out the door. Although it's only a few steps before your flight response is overpowered by fear. You don’t know where you are, or where you live, or something as simple as what day it is. The anxiety of getting lost forever keeps you stuck in place until you eventually give up. Sinking to the floor beneath the window and looking up at what you could see of the sky. 

The cool night air is refreshing, and it lightly whips stray hairs around your face. You write that down even though it seems irrelevant.  ** _It’s cool outside at night. You like it_**. Flipping through the pages that you’ve filled already the parts that jump out at you are the opinions. Not the facts that people have told you but the things you’ve decided for yourself. There’s not many but they’re littered about and they feel like, well honestly, they feel like words on a page. It’s difficult to conjure emotion to all of the sentences just because you  _want_  to feel. But they are, at least, the most coherent things written down. The facts as written hard and unwavering,  ** _your name is Y/N Y/L/N_**. But the opinions, they’re like a friend talking to you and they’re sometimes completely useless,  ** _you like munching on the ice after you’ve finished your drink_**.

“That was a good idea you know.” A voice rings out from behind you before it’s owner sits down next to you.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.” You attempt to jest but the lilt of your voice just isn’t there. It’s too uneven, too broken.

He humors you though with a chuckle, “I’m not. You always have good ideas, I’m missing your good ideas right now.”

You’ve given up pretending now. You find the place on the first page of your notes to double check his name before you speak, “Sam. I know- I know I don’t have a lot of time left…”

“Hey, don’t. We’re going to figure this out.” He interrupts you with a reassuring smile.

“Ok but let’s say that we don’t. I know you just told us all that,” you wave your hand to signify the everything that just happened, “but those are just stories. Can you, I mean if you don’t mind, but I don’t remember who I was. Can you maybe tell me what I’m like?”

He looks at you like you might have just broken his heart, but he nods anyway, clearing his throat while he figures out what to say. “You hate heights because they give you vertigo. You love winter more than summer because you hate it being too hot. You’re funny but you still laugh at Dean’s bad jokes. You love Christmas and you’ve decorated the bunker every year since you moved in. You’re competitive to a fault. And you can’t sit and read for more than five minutes without humming something and not even knowing you’re doing it, which is not helpful when we’re doing research.”

You look up at him with watery eyes, a desperate smile clinging to your face. “Thank you. It still doesn’t… you could have been telling me about a stranger you know? But thank you. It helps, I think, to know a little about who I used to be.” You tap the notepad where you wrote down every word he said, “at least I have a reference point now.”

There are a few minutes that you just sit there, trying to make a connection between his presence and what it would feel like to be friends. Nothing’s there. Although there must have been at some point, right? He knew you, maybe not as well as Dean, you’re told, but he knew things about you. He’d been the one to carefully tell you things all day. 

“Y/N, I’ve got to go but you’re going to stay here with Rowena.”

You pull a face, but he leans over your shoulder to point out her description you’ve written, “with the amazing red hair.”

“It’s unnaturally red.” You correct him as you both stand up.

“You’re going to be ok, you and Dean. I promise.” He wraps his arms around your shoulders in an attempt at comfort but his eyes are red, and you don't think from lack of sleep. 

“I would say don’t make promises you can’t keep but I won’t remember it anyway.”

Maybe Sam was right, maybe you were funny.

* * *

 

You wake up stretched out on the back seat of a car. The leather is worn and soft, an equally fitting description for the hand that is currently shaking you.

“Hey, wake up, erm. Miss?”

You sit up quickly, a little too quickly when your eyes finally open. “Who are you?”

He holds up a white note, “I don’t know but our brother has been kidnapped by a witch,” then he holds up another note, “and we have to stay here.”

“Our brother?” splutters out of your mouth. You couldn’t possibly be related to this stranger, could you? 

He shrugs one shoulder, “that’s what the note says.”

You check your pockets while the man, your brother maybe, faces forward again looking out of the windows into the forest you're parked in. The only thing you find is a miniature bottle of vodka and a notepad. 

“Hey, how tall are you?” you ask trying to gauge which description he adheres to.

He whips around worried by the question, “I don’t know. I should know that right?”

You nod seriously, “yeah you should. Why don’t you know that?”

He frowns at you, “ok then, how tall are you?” 

Your mouth opens and shuts wordlessly. Why didn’t you know how tall you were? 

The notepad in front of you, in its own way, answers all the questions for you when you finally read more of it. You are under a memory loss spell. There’s a lot written, some of it so rushed on the paper that it becomes squiggles rather than words, but you read that you hunt monsters apparently. Monsters being real is enough of a revelation, but you're dumb enough to go out there and hunt them?

“Do you want to be Sam or Dean?”

He turns around again, leaning across the back of his seat, “why are those my only options?”

You hold up the pad triumphantly, “because I have two options here. So, unless you want to be something called a Rowena then you need to pick. Are you Sam or Dean?”

He pulls a face like he can taste something rotten, but his eyes continue to scan the words you’re proudly displaying, “so I can be the tall one or the hot one?” Fine, I’ll take Dean.” 

You lean back with a finger on your chin and a smirk on your face, “you sure? Maybe you’re tall?”

He pouts, throwing his entire bottom lip out for effect, you don't know why but the sight makes you concede defeat instantly. “Ok, ok. You can be Dean and I’m called Y/N apparently. Wow, I don’t know if I feel like a Y/N.”

“I like it. So, Y/N, wanna bust out of here?”

You feel the grin fill up your face, “you mean run off into the woods with the hot man I’ve only just met? Beats sitting here waiting for the witches to find us.”

As you get out of the car and stretch your legs you hear him behind you, “so you admit I’m hot.”

* * *

 

The guy you’ve been calling Dean just shot a woman and then another woman, who had been magically suspended in the air, fell to the floor. This was not exactly normal, so it was no wonder that you kept your own gun raised. 

When two men come running down the stairs Dean’s gun goes between them until one of them shouts, “Brother,” and then pointing at the other man, “witch”.

You look at Dean to confer, “he is tall.”

Dean agrees with a bullet fired off at the man in the funny glasses and a thumbs up at the man who may or may not be his brother and possibly your own brother?

“Dean, Y/N what are you doing here?” He asks as he comes down the stairs.

“So, you are Dean!” you exclaim, excited that you’d assigned the correct name.

“And I told you Y/N suited you.” He replies with a happy smile. 

You’re all stuck there for a moment. You and Dean are caught in this little bubble of post teamwork happiness and Sam is also there.

Then something happens that knocks you for six. Literally.

Your legs buck beneath you and you tumble to the floor. Both men rush over to you and frustrated tears spring to your eyes as they try to help you up, your legs flailing around beneath you.

“I don’t- I don’t know how to do it.” The words seem so abstract and foreign and ridiculous. That moments ago, you were doing what they’re doing, on two legs and now you felt like the limbs were a separate entity from your body. You willed them to do something, anything, but you couldn’t find the right command inside your head to stand let alone walk. “What’s- what’s happening to me?”

It’s the woman, tiny and fiery, that answers. Well, not you directly but she speaks to the tall guy about you, “we need to reverse this spell before she forgets how to do something important, like breathe.”

All you can manage is hot tears that glide down your cheeks as one of the men, you can’t remember his name and right now you don’t care, scoops you up and carries you up the stairs.

* * *

 

 

The purple light surrounds you, it seeps into every pore and you’re not sure you’d want to escape it if you could. Somewhere far away there’s a voice chanting words you don’t understand but that doesn’t matter. Because the warmth of the purple glow is everything for those few beautiful minutes.

You only know that you passed out at some point because you're aware of becoming conscious again. Hearing heated voices from behind your closed eyes.

"What do you mean she's out? It's your spell!"

"This is very ancient magic, I can't be sure about every little thing. She was further gone than you! She's still breathing isn't she?"

"So, we don't even know if it worked?"

"Not until she wakes up, obviously."

That seems like as good a moment as any to open your eyes. "What happened?"

"Y/N" Sam and Dean both call out at once. They're both by your side as you sit up, the hard, wooden floor you'd been laying on making your muscles ache.

"Hey, boys," you look between them with a smile, groggy like you've been asleep for a few hundred hours and yet, you want to curl up and put your head back down still.

"What's the last thing you remember, sweetheart?" Dean holds one of your hands between his as he asks, knotted brow and lips just parted. You're not sure how long he's been holding you but now that you're aware you have to fight the blush on your cheeks. The last thing you wanted to do was ruin your friendship while he was clearly just worried about you.

You scrunch your face unintentionally while you try to remember. It does nothing to help but at least they'll know you're trying.

"I guess the last thing was… Oh! That hunt we finished a few days ago. The Rugaru in Albuquerque."

It's not the right answer. You don't need to be a psychic to know that. Dean's face falls, you've never seen him look so sad, and Sam looks like he's struggling with some deep turmoil.

"Y/N that was..." Sam starts but Dean jumps in quickly.

"Don't." His voice is low and hard. It's frightening enough that all you can do is stare as he drops your hand and spins around to the woman standing behind him. "Why can't she remember?"

"Dean, calm down." Sam jumps up to put an arm on his brother. Well, that's nice, they were worried about you for all of thirty seconds.

Whoever she is she's rightly scared by the way Dean is towering over her, "I told you this is old magic, maybe with a little more time I could find another way."

"No" he grinds out. "No more magic, no more messing with her head."

"HEY!" You shut out to get their attention. "Does somebody want to tell ME what's going on?"

It's Dean who looks at you and sighs, his entire body seems to exhale.

"Baby, that was three years ago."

He doesn't even seem to notice the nickname that slipped out, just like don't question it as you look between them for the joke but find only truth etched on their faces.

"Oh, fuck."

* * *

 

The three days immediately following Rowena's departure had mostly involved screaming matches and solitude.

Dean wasn't telling you something and he'd sworn Sam to secrecy like it was some kind of fucking game. Like it wasn't  _your_  life and  _your_  three years' worth of missing memories.

The ride home had been a nightmare from start to finish and Dean had pulled over three times only so he could turn around and yell at you properly. Not that you didn't scream back but you weren't driving so you couldn't be all dramatic and stop the car to make a point. 

How Sam endured it you'll never know. He gave up trying to referee somewhere around hour three.

Not that he was totally off the hook and you'd both screamed at him at least once during the drive. You told him, at the top of your lungs of course, that he had no right to keep secrets from you, it was your life. Dean, eloquent as ever, simply told him that if Sam said anything then Dean would murder him.

As soon as you'd got back to the bunker you'd taken a big, over the top whiff and sighed, "home sweet home, OR IS IT, DEAN? DO I EVEN LIVE HERE ANYMORE?"

"WOULD I HAVE BROUGHT YOU HERE IF IT WASN'T?"

"FUCK YOU ASSHOLE"

"IN YOUR DREAMS SWEETHEART"

The funny thing was. He was kind of right.  

It had been weird to walk into your room and get the feeling that you hadn't been there in a long time. Like a static photograph of how you used to live. It had been weirder still that there were items of clothing missing and the ring, you mothers ring, that you kept on a chain, wasn't on your desk where you left it when you sometimes forgot to put it on after a shower. But you'd moved past that weirdness.

Stranger still had been your dream that night.

_You were in a bar that you didn't recognize holding a white check between your fingers and laughing, nudging Dean and asking him how he eats so much. Only to then make him promise to share his chili fries with you in your next breath. He smiles at you, no it’s not a smile it’s a grin, and it softens the pretend annoyance in his voice as he asks you why you don't order your own. Because, obviously, then you wouldn't be able to share his. It's your idea to start drinking tequila because you have more fun that way. It's his idea to keep drinking tequila until you've lost count of how many you've had._

_The next thing you know Dean is getting on the mechanical bull and watching him raises goosebumps all over your body. He saunters over to you when he gets off, high on the noise of the crowd. As hot as it was you want nothing more than to wipe the smug smirk off his face. Maybe to get him a little hot under the collar too, but mostly you just know you can do better. You keep steady eye contact with him as you unbutton the bottom of your shirt and tie it in a knot at your midriff. His eyes are dark pools of lust as you wiggle your eyebrows and go over to mount the beast. You wink at him before the rocking starts and after it does your hips slide forward and back smoothly to match the movements beneath you. You understand why Dean loved this so much, the whoops and cheers of the crowd matched with the swinging beneath you is exhilarating, and when you raise an arm in the air as if you're swinging an imaginary lasso the hum of the people gets louder in approval._

_The guy working the machine tells you that you lasted a full minute longer than Dean and when you _haughtily_ tell him as much he looks pleased that you’ve beaten him. He doesn't say a word as he wraps a hand around your now bare waist and leads you back to the bar where he orders two more shots. His fingers on your skin make you shudder in anticipation. The burn of the alcohol has barely subsided before his mouth is on you, lips crushing yours, tongue delving into your mouth like he already has it memorized. Your hands meet around his neck, pulling him closer if possible. Your nails scratch at his scalp, feeling soft hair against your fingers and resisting the urge to pull it. Not until you get back to your room, you think. You stay like that, pawing at each other, lips either locked with each other's or attached to skin until some guy calls a number that you remember is yours. You press your lips to him one last time and whisper into his mouth that you have to get those burgers. He groans like you've physically hurt him and, considering the hard bulge of his pants as he presses it against you, maybe you have._

_The waitress holding your bags of food is waiting with a strange look on her face when you walk over, she tells you that Dean's a pervert and you can do better. You've had enough to drink that you laugh it off, taking the paper bags and looking around for your pervert but you see him running through the bar and out the door. The bags are forgotten as you run after him, reaching for your gun _from where it was hidden_ as you burst through the door._

You're covered in sweat as you bolt upright, chest heaving and mind reeling. Unlike a regular dream where you more you clutch at it the faster it slips away, this dream just wouldn't leave your head. In fact, the more you thought about it the more intensely you felt every second of it. As you sat in the relative darkness of your room, shaking, it was all you could do to not feel the hungry press of Dean's lips and teeth as they trailed over your throat biting and sucking at the sensitive spot that he wasn't supposed to know you loved.

Why was your brain making you dream of him? You'd had enough of him while you were awake and now you had to have bizarro sex dreams about him as well?

Presumably, in the three years, you were missing, you never managed to get over your dumb crush.

* * *

 

The next day you keep to yourself, leaving your room for only food and necessary trips to the bathroom. You had your laptop and a few books, so you were not going to run out of entertainment any time soon.

The following day you plan the same, but Sam catches you in the kitchen with toast hanging out of your mouth and coffee in your hands.

"Y/N?"

You take the food out of your mouth before answering because you're not an animal, like some people you can think of, "yeah Sam?"

"Can we talk for a second?" He motions to the door so you know this is a sit-in-the-library-serious-talk.

You follow him anyway. No matter how early it is, no matter how much you don't want to talk to him, or anyone else right now. 

He sits down like with his hands crossed in front of him and the expression he normally uses on victims to make them talk.

"I'm sorry Y/N." You try to resist but you have to admit that his apology does weaken your angry resolve a little. "I know it's hard to understand when it feels like we know everything and you don't, but Dean has his reasons for not wanting to…"

You open your mouth and from the sneer, he can tell that you're not going to say something nice.

He waves a hand, "...that's not, I know you've heard that before, that's not why I wanted to talk to you. I told Dean I wouldn't be the one to tell you the things that he doesn't think you should know. But that doesn't mean that I agree with him about keeping you in the dark. I thought maybe you could help yourself."

"What?"

He doesn't answer directly but he slips a notebook out of his pocket, it's one of those cheap ones that the nicer motels leave around like you're going to write to your loved ones on their crappy motel paper. This isn't blank and unused like these notepads normally are though. This is covered in writing, and by the looks of it, there are pages and pages. And upon closer inspection, it's all in your handwriting.

Some of it is the loopy cursive you use when you're taking your time and some of it is the squiggly scrawl your writing becomes when you're rushing.

"When you started forgetting things you wrote stuff down to help you remember, well not remember but as a reference at least. It's not everything but, I thought it could be a start. And I don't think I'm technically breaking any rules."

You smile at Sam, the crafty little minx he is, "technically? You hoping to get off on a technicality?"

He holds his hands up again, this time nonchalant as he gets up and walks away, "Get off for what crime? That was probably in your bag when we left the motel, you just forgot about it."

He has the audacity to wink at you before he goes and although you want to tell him it's too soon to be joking about your memory you're much more curious to read, in your own words, exactly what you didn't want to forget.

* * *

 

It takes a while to get through it. There's an insane yet elaborate system of cross-referencing in the first few pages where things loop back on each other, so you end up spending a bit of time figuring those parts out. You'd apparently made up some key in your head to make it easier to find information, but you hadn't thought to write the key down, despite the fact that you were losing your memory. As you progress further it gets more scrawled with more writing fit onto each page. Clearly, at the start, you weren't forgetting everything but the further you read the more you seem to have forgotten everything about yourself.

**_The tall guy put on a cartoon about a bunch of teenagers who hunt ghosts. Although they don't seem to hunt real ghosts like the hot guy says that you gank._ **

_**Gank means to kill.** _

You're sitting cross-legged on your bed when you get to it, something that feels important. It's on page fifteen or something that you start writing fast and heavy like you don't want to miss a word, and you start this page fresh like you had a pre-warning that it was going to be significant. It's a few more pages in, past the stuff about hunting and the spell, that you start writing something unexpected.

**_Sam says that he doesn't know all of your past, but he knows the past four years, that's how long you lived with them. He says the first year was the worst because of all the tension between you and Dean. He says Dean fell for you the first time he saw you and he doesn't know when you fell for Dean but eventually it was obvious that you both liked each other, to everyone but you both. He says if you weren't fawning all over each other when the other one wasn't looking, then you were at each other's throats. Sam almost locked you in a room together but in the end, he didn't need to, he said that once you were both told you couldn't have sex because you joined a church chastity group the tension got, his word, weird. Sam says you're both in love._ **

There's a pause there. You stop writing on that page so the last thing that is written is that you're in love. You re-read the words a hundred times. Eventually, you have to put the pad down for a second and take a break.

You think back to the look on his face when you said you didn't remember anything from the last three years. You remember wondering why he looked so torn up about it. It starts to make sense.

But were you…? Were you in love with him? Sure, you definitely had thought about him like that. It would be hard not to after that dream a few nights ago but Sam had been right about at least one thing when he told you your own story. You had a crush on him, you had feelings that were, as far as you remember, unrequited. But that was the point, right? You didn't remember.

Just because you didn't remember does it mean that it didn't happen?

It's for a distraction now when you pick up the pad again and turn to the next page. Forgetful Y/N had questions too.

**_If Sam says I'm in love with someone, that I have been for years, does it make it true? How do I know if it's true?_ **

**_Sam says that you make each other happy. He says that's important and he doesn't want you both to lose that. Sam doesn't seem like a liar._ **

**_It's cool outside at night. You like it._ **

You wish you knew what happened that made you so abruptly stop thinking about this. It's a choked laugh as you think, maybe you forgot about it. What did you think about this when you re-read it while you were under the spell? Did you re-read it at all or just write it down, in case?

You want to go find Dean but you're still not sure what to say or how you feel. You can't bear to see that look of sadness on his face again and you're not even sure if any of this makes a difference if you couldn't feel it?

You're still arguing with yourself as you fall into a fitful sleep. The notepad tucked under your pillow.

* * *

 

Sam was a sneaky fuck.

He'd lured you out of bed with the promise of a case. Let you get dressed and waits until you’re loading your duffle into the trunk to come out and tell you and Dean, who was already in the driver's seat ready to go, that he was staying behind.

Stomach problems he'd said while patting his flat and perfectly functional gut.

How dare he.

And worst of all is that Dean hadn't even yelled. Sam had left so quickly after his excuse that all you'd seen through the back window was his shoulders slump. He didn't hate you, he wasn't angry, he was just too exhausted to be doing this, alone, with you.

You'd almost run into the bunker and told Sam to stop dicking around and get in the car. To tell him that he was causing more pain than was necessary and he needed to stop. But Dean had finally expressed himself in the form of an extended honk and then a gruff, "you coming or what?"

That's how you'd ended up sitting in the passenger seat, as close to the door as humanly possible, while Zeppelin fills the space between you both, ensuring not one of you thinks of talking.

It's got to be two hours in when you fall asleep.

Not that you mean to fall asleep, it's normally a pet peeve of yours if you're the only passenger. You've delivered very strong lectures in the past about it being the only passenger's responsibility to stay awake and keep the driver entertained. But it's been two hours without a word and it wouldn't be the first time you've fallen asleep with the music as loud as it is.

The dream this time is just a real as before.

_You're in the Dean cave. The man in question is sitting on his recliner and you are curled up on his lap, back pressing against his chest and eyes glued to the screen. You're watching ‘Home Alone’, arguably one of the top five best Christmas films and your lips move silently along with about 80% of the dialogue. Dean's arms are wrapped around you, one hand drawing shapes into your thigh._

_He leans in to press his lips to the back of your neck and although you lean into him your eyes never leave the film. A few minutes later and he's sucking the skin between your shoulder and neck, that sweet spot that always makes your knees wobble. Even as you let a small moan escape your lips you don't look away. Not when it's 9pm and Harry and Marv have just shown up. He keeps his lips on you for another minute, pulling another moan from you when he trails a hand from your thigh to the waistband of your sleep shorts._

_You pick up the remote and pause the film. You pout at him and ask him if he's even watching the cinematic magic that is happening on the screen. He thinks he's being funny when he answers no but you're prepared for his shenanigans. You say you're sorry for distracting him from the film and get up and move to the empty recliner. Even though your body objects, you really were enjoying yourself after all. But Dean clearly had no idea how seriously you took the holiday season and he needed to learn._

_You give him a shit-eating grin and a wave before you press play again, telling him you hope he'll be able to appreciate it now without distractions but it's his turn to pout. He presses out his bottom lip knowing that you never can resist it. Tonight, for maybe the first and last time, you manage the impossible. You might squirm in your seat while you continue watching, you might drum your fingers against the arm of the chair impatiently, but you make it through. You finish and you're smiling, and everything seems magical._

_That is until you look over at Dean with his head back, mouth open and light snores rumbling from his chest._

_You shut the TV off and double check the door is shut before you slide out of your sleep shorts and panties, leaving you in just the big, fluffy sweatshirt you're wearing. You deftly slide back onto his lap but facing him this time, legs either side of his, and you slide your hands up his chest slowly. He startles awake at the sudden contact, but it takes him all of a nanosecond to realize what's going on. He at least gives you the courtesy of looking sorry that he missed the end of the film as his hands glide up your legs and over the globes of your ass. The moment of recognition when he realizes you're not wearing anything, _except_ the sweatshirt, is priceless. You wish you could take a picture and keep it forever. And then he growls against your lip as he pulls you in for a kiss, the sound pooling in your center and…_

There's a bang on the roof of the car that wakes you. You open your eyes shakily to see Dean is already out of the car, his duffle hiked over his shoulder and wandering over to the small office to get a room.

You move out of the car and to the trunk for you bag in a trance. In a hot, post-almost-sex-dream trance that's left your entire body tingling.

These dreams are too vivid, too specific to be the product of your ridiculous crush on him. And that's when it hits you straight between the eyes.

What if they're not dreams? What if they're your memories?

Your mind goes back to your notepad, the one tucked into the side pocket of your bag, and those words written in your own hand.  ** _Sam says you make each other happy_**. Then you think about the bunker and your room that seems like it hasn't been lived in. And the folder of photos you found on your laptop the day before of you and Dean. Dumb selfies taken when the other one least suspects it like it’s a long-running game.

You might not be ready to say that you love Dean Winchester but maybe you could make each other happy?

He returns with a room key and mumbles that there's only one room free. You follow him wordlessly, wandering into the room and sitting on one of the two beds and not knowing what to say. How do you start a conversation like this? The only actual conversations you've had since you'd forgotten a huge chunk of your life were screaming matches. 

And then it comes to you, "Dean, have you ever seen Home Alone?"

He was sitting at the small table in the room, the case file in his hands and scanning the contents. He looks up like it's an innocent question at first, "yeah, we watched it..."

His eyes go wide but the rest of him doesn't move, "how do you- how did you know about that?"

You want to look at your hands or the floor but you force yourself to look directly at him, "I've had a few dreams that I'm starting to think aren't dreams."

You start walking towards him. You can see the heavy gulp in his throat as he asks, "Dreams, huh?"

"Yeah. They're too real to be dreams but they're all about me and you and," you never finish because as soon as the words 'me and you' are out of your mouth he's out of his seat meeting you halfway, both his large, calloused hands cupping your face. He's inches from kissing you when he looks into your eyes seriously and lets that nickname fall from his lips, "baby, do you remember?"

You look up at him through your lashes. You can't seem to settle on one thing to look at, his lips, his eyes, everything about his face is perfect to you down to the way he’s staring at you. "Not everything but, I mean, bits and pieces. And I want to remember the rest if you'll help me catch up."

He kisses you answering your question with his lips on yours. And to you, it's like a first kiss all over again, it's new and hopeful and it makes you feel complete even if you're still missing time.

* * *

 

It's hours later when you're lying in bed, naked, with Dean. Dean Winchester. There's a part of you that still finds it unbelievable because there's a part of you that has never done this before. A part of you with a dumb crush that you thought nothing would come of. A much bigger part of you can't believe you'd forgotten the feeling of home that came with being wrapped up in his arms.

He's telling you random stories, whispering them to you in the now dark room like secrets. He told you about your first time and you tell him you can't wait to have  _that_  dream. He tells you about one of the many times Sam has walked in on you both because you find him so irresistible, you don't admit it but he's completely right of course. He falls asleep before you after he finishes telling you that you make him a pie every week. You tell him to stop lying because your memories will all come back eventually, and he'll pay for it then.

He smiles in his sleep, pulling you close, and you think, maybe you will make him a pie every now and then. You might not be ready to tell him you love him, you had some catching up to do before that could happen, but you don't need a notepad or a post-it to tell you that you want to make him as happy as he makes you.

**Author's Note:**

> WILD RIDE AMIRITE?


End file.
